


Five Times Leonard McCoy Kissed Spock and One Time Spock Kissed Him

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blood, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mistletoe, Vulcan Kisses, very faint hints of McSpirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Well, actually it's more like 4.5 plus 1.5.....





	1. Diplomatic Incident

The Barzini are a culture with a decided affinity for diplomatic ritual, and one of those rituals is kissing as a form of polite greeting, a practice quite similar to the greeting rituals of certain European cultures on Earth.

Spock watches in dismay as every representative kisses his captain on first one cheek, then the other. He is relieved when, instead of moving down the line to address him, they apparently expect Kirk to transmit the greeting. 

Kirk turns to McCoy at his right and grins at Bones, who eyerolls, but leans in and accepts his captain’s polite kiss on first one cheek, then the other.

Spock experiences a moment of mild alarm, realizing McCoy is now expected to pass the symbolic greeting to him, but it is too late to second-guess his positioning in the group. McCoy is turning to him; his eyes snap with mocking good humor.

The doctor reaches, hands settling on his shoulders to steady them both. 

“Don’t move a muscle,” McCoy commands in a whisper pitched for Spock’s ears only, leaning in. 

Spock does not.

McCoy busses his left cheek without fuss-- a dry brush of cheek against cheek that has nothing of lips in it. Spock’s psi-receptors flare for a split second; McCoy feels quite embarrassed and insecure behind the face of his calm good-humor. It is awkward for them all.

Oddly that reassures Spock, so he turns imperceptibly into the second kiss-- enough that the corner of McCoy’s mouth barely grazes his skin. McCoy draws back, apparently not perturbed by the contact, then turns himself forward again, admirably composed and correct other than the faint pink flush rising on his cheeks.

Spock must now pass the kiss along despite his dismay; he turns to Mr. Scott, who gives him an expression eloquent of sardonic long-suffering. 

Spock imitates McCoy’s pragmatic approach but excludes the whisper, grasping the chief engineer’s shoulders and brushing only their cheeks together as briefly as possible. Afterward Scott turns to Keenser and bends down, awkward, to pass the greeting onward.

The Barzini, it seems, are satisfied.


	2. Injury

The captain is injury prone, as ever-- but this time, the situation is far worse than minor injury. A projectile weapon makes a gushing cavity in Kirk’s chest directly adjacent to his heart. Spock falls to his knees, barking orders for emergency beam-out, more bullets singing around his ears. He ignores them, clutching at the spurting artery. 

Spock arrives on the transporter pad, spattered with hot, bright red arterial blood, Kirk’s precious life leaking between his fingers faster than it can be stanched. Agonizing seconds later, McCoy tears in at a dead run with Chapel and M’Benga in his wake. First Scott and then Riley offer their own arms up for transfusion as soon as the worst of the arterial damage is repaired.

Chapel seizes Riley, swabbing his arm at once, and M’Benga inserts the needle as she prepares Scott. Spock watches the tubes connecting the men to Jim as the crimson flow courses through them and into him. He watches the color begin to flow back into Jim’s ash-gray skin, and only when McCoy sags with relief does he depart and take up his position on the bridge. 

Now that his duty shift is over he has returned to sit vigil next to Jim, who lies motionless on the biobed. 

“He’ll be fine. I still have him sedated-- the wound took a lot out of him, and all that regen needs time to settle in and take.” McCoy’s fingers touch Kirk’s chest, the white bandages reassuringly pristine. The biobed beeps, slow and steady. “He’s a shitty patient. If I hadn’t knocked him out, he’d have tried to go up to the bridge to relieve you at least 30 hours ago.”

Spock nods. It has been more than three days since the initial injury, and he has yet to sleep.

McCoy harrumphs and steps aside; when he returns, he has a pillow. 

Spock considers declining it, but his head is heavy, as though the gravity had increased to several times the shipboard norm. Sleep seems to sing a siren’s song, and as soon as McCoy steps away again, Spock succumbs to it.

He is sleeping lightly, near the surface of consciousness, when he becomes aware of the doctor’s presence once more. McCoy stands next to him for a long time, but Spock does not move. 

He expects McCoy to depart, but before he does, the doctor leans down. Impossibly, Spock feels soft lips brush against his temple-- tenderness, concern, sympathy, and love transmit themselves through his skin, muted but distinct. 

Spock cannot discern whether those feelings are intended for him or for Jim.

As McCoy softly steals away, he decides it is safest to assume they are meant for Kirk.


	3. Injury Revisited

Dr. McCoy appears frantic. Spock notes this fact with clinical dissociation; he also notices the ceiling panels of the corridor rushing by, the light fixtures appearing at precise intervals. A considerable breeze accompanies their passing. He is apparently perched on a gurney.

“Give him 60 ccs of inaprovaline. That damned copper blood won’t tolerate chloromydride.” McCoy’s forearms are flecked with emerald speckles and Spock realizes with mild surprise that it is apparently his turn to suffer a life-threatening injury. He can see Jim sprinting along with them, his face set in rictus of stress. “Dammit, not in the arm. Up here!” McCoy snatches the hypo and it hisses just below Spock’s ear, which will reduce the chemical’s travel time to his brain by several seconds. 

“Can you set a healing trance?” M’Benga’s face appears over his.

“Affirmative.” Spock tries to speak normally, but his lips are unresponsive; they slur the word.

“Goddamned mercenary sons of bitches had to shoot him in the head.” McCoy snaps sidelong to Jim. “If those Andorian bastards damaged his brain, I swear, I’ll castrate every last one of them with a blunt spoon--” McCoy seems to realize Spock is listening and shuts his mouth with a snap. “You’re gonna be fine, Spock. Just do what Geoff says.”

Spock is not convinced of the veracity of McCoy’s latter claim, but the logic of following M’Benga’s directive is apparent to him. He closes his eyes and is gratified when he is able to enter the trance.

He is aware of McCoy bustling around him, snapping orders-- the warmth of the sterile field, the cold touch of plastic and metal surgical gear as McCoy puts the surgical regenerator in the prescribed spot over the neural cortex, the brisk professional energy in his voice as he performs the surgery, then regenerates the derma and concludes. 

During this time, M’Benga assures McCoy that Spock has been able to set the trance, that he will recover swiftly, that he will require assistance to awaken-- but does not mention that he is conscious and aware. 

That does not trouble Spock; Vulcans are capable of suppressing physical pain and typically do not indulge anaesthesia for minor surgery (and, as he would have reminded the doctor if he were capable of it, brain tissue contains no pain receptors). 

He is glad when the surgery finishes and he can devote a greater fraction of his consciousness to repairing the damage. He believes he will be able to bypass damaged synapses and restore critical function; some minor knowledge may have been lost but fortunately the damaged storage areas contained inconsequential information that will largely prove replaceable in cases where synaptic bypass is ineffective.

He is vaguely aware of sickbay shutting down around him, the muted hum of instrumentation growing quieter, the soft lights dimming. 

He drifts slightly closer to consciousness when McCoy steps in, stealthy, for a final check, humming approval at whatever the monitors display.

“Hard-headed hobgoblin.” McCoy sounds exasperated. “One of these days….” McCoy doesn’t finish the statement, which has the vague sound of a threat. 

Spock lies still-- in the healing trance, he hardly has the option to move-- as McCoy stands over him. Then there is the sound of a chair dragging over the floor and McCoy takes up a post by Spock’s bed. “Geoff says you’ll need someone nearby to help you wake up. I drew the short straw,” McCoy tells him, in the sharp tone of someone who does not expect adequate thanks for a great sacrifice. 

Spock expects McCoy to lean back, maybe even put his feet up… but he doesn’t. Instead he leans forward. Spock feels McCoy’s breath stirring his hair. 

“Damned reckless idiots, the both of you.” His hand settles on Spock’s hair, thumb sliding along the point of his ear. “I ought to bob those damned ears of yours just to teach you a lesson.” His voice is gruff with embarrassment as much as annoyance, and his touch is as gentle as his words are harsh. Spock suddenly realizes McCoy’s anger hides genuine concern.

Spock would reassure McCoy if he were capable of speech and motion. Instead he is grateful for the trance, which prevents him from flinching when McCoy’s lips brush his face, the caress unexpected and sweet.

This time there can be no ambiguity. This time the affection and protectiveness McCoy feels are clearly meant for him. 

Spock looks forward to his swift recovery; clearly he has much to meditate on.


	4. Mistletoe Contretemps

Traditional human holiday rituals are a source of perpetual puzzlement to Spock, but he finds Christmas especially incomprehensible. The only thing he understands is that the holiday represents a baffling fusion of obsolete religious rituals and superstitions drawn from nearly every region of Earth. Humans use it as an excuse to become profoundly sentimental and consume excessive amounts of alcohol. Also, for some unknown reason Christmas tradition apparently involves aesthetically questionable knitted garments. 

Growing up with a human mother and relations, Spock had learned very swiftly that at Christmas celebrations it was prudent to avoid any hanging garlands with greenery suspended from them, especially if the greenery resembled an obligate hemiparasitic plant of the order _Santalales_. The rounded leaves and white berries cause extraordinarily imprudent behavior among humans, and ever since his first unwitting run-in with a hanging sprig of _phoradendron leucarpum_ , he has made a particular point of avoiding its vicinity.

He stands against a wall, equidistant from the buffet table and the door, calculating how soon he can depart without offending the captain. As he waits, he ponders the daunting logistical challenge of exiting via a 91.5-centimeter portal without passing directly under the sprig of mistletoe Lieutenant Uhura pinned at the center of its span shortly after his arrival. Given that Spock’s shoulder width spans approximately 47 centimeters, a clean escape appears impossible, leaving him in a quandary.

The doctor draws near; Spock can hear him laughing and joking in the corridor outside. He passes through the door and is caught unawares by the mistletoe. A number of crewmen and women-- notably including the captain-- descend on him like vultures. Spock considers the fluster of activity, expression austere. He remains where he is, hands folded neatly behind his back. 

“You should get over there,” Nyota murmurs as she passes by. “You’ve missed your opportunity.”

“Obtaining physical intimacy through humorous coercion is not the Vulcan way,” Spock objects. “If kisses are not given willingly, they have no value.”

“Nobody’s holding a phaser to his head. It’s tradition!” Nyota shakes her head at Spock and flits away. 

Spock remains where he is, accepting a plate of fruit salad from Yeoman Rand and a cup of punch from the captain. He drinks, after first ascertaining via means of olfactory inspection that the punch has not been spiked. 

There is dancing, and Spock observes the various forms of motion with a critical eye. Humans apparently prefer to eschew the more elegant and beautiful forms in favor of random gyrations. As the night progresses and the alcohol flows, the gyrations become even less graceful and in some cases-- Spock winces slightly-- devolve into an activity Jim would call ‘dry-humping.’

Perhaps the crew are busy and intoxicated enough that he might make his escape without being observed. And yet he lingers, watching McCoy sipping a drink at a table across the room. The doctor is smiling, but he declines any and all offers to dance. 

If Spock were human, perhaps he might make an inquiry of his own, but as he is not…. The attention his gesture would draw and the likelihood of a sharp public rebuff prevent him from venturing the attempt. 

He waits until a song with a loud, driving beat and exuberant half-screamed lyrics sends the assembly into a frenzy, then darts for the door, slipping through with his body effaced to the side as if to circle around the cone of influence cast by the hanging herb. But McCoy is watching, and he sees the doctor begin to rise as he slips away.

He has the option, of course, of moving quite quickly to the nearest turbolift and departing in it before McCoy could possibly catch up to him, but he slows his pace to his normal walking speed, curious to see what will transpire.

Sure enough, McCoy emerges, a little unsteady on his feet. He smells of peppermint and chocolate-- tantalizing Spock’s taste buds as he falls into step at his side. 

“I saw that little stunt you just pulled with the mistletoe. Time to pay the piper,” the doctor says as Spock reaches the turbolift.

Spock turns, raising a brow, but forgets his remark when McCoy leans in and his soft lips cover Spock’s in a slow, tentative kiss that tastes of mint and hot chocolate and schnapps, with just the faintest tantalizing scent of marshmallow. “Merry Christmas,” McCoy whispers against his lips, and the turbolift slides open behind Spock as the doctor quickly turns on his heel and ghosts away.

Spock dimly hears the lift chime: once, twice, and a third impatient time before the door closes again and as the driving mechanism whines, he realizes he has been standing motionless in shock for a broad span of seconds.

He waits for the next car, his heart still hammering in his side. 

He advises himself not to take the event too seriously. Humans often do things they later regret while intoxicated. 

Nevertheless, a pattern is forming.


	5. Vulcan Style

A small group of Vulcans travels aboard the Enterprise to attend a diplomatic conference, and Spock’s father is among them. He brings his new wife, a Vulcan female named T’Lira, introducing her formally to Spock (who is on the receiving end of disapprobation from the New Vulcan council, as he has not yet ensured his genetic legacy by taking a bride). Spock does not resent T’Lira; it is logical for all Vulcans of breeding age to contribute to the rebuilding of the Vulcan population. Nevertheless, it is difficult for him to see her at Sarek’s side, occupying the spot where Amanda once walked. 

Spock is exquisitely formal and polite to her, and he is seated opposite them during a number of events and receptions. McCoy is present at most of them, as well; he too is polite-- his best version of polite, anyway, which T’Lira obviously regards as overly familiar and more than slightly insolent. 

Spock is left to fruitless speculation of how McCoy might have acted had he ever encountered Amanda. He suspects his mother would have enjoyed the doctor’s company greatly.

“My wife, attend,” Sarek says with dignity as he and T’Lira prepare to take leave after a concert. They arise together and demonstrate the strength of their bond as is normal between Vulcans: by touching their paired fingers together.

Spock is aware that McCoy is watching Sarek, his sharp eyes sparkling with interest. Spock pretends oblivion, but his heart speeds up a little as he anticipates the doctor’s questions.

They do not come until after the diplomatic party has departed the ship, leaving Spock to meditate on his relief. 

McCoy sits slouched at a commissary table, a cup of coffee in his left hand. “What was that, Spock? That gesture your dad did a time or three with his-- with T’Lira.” Spock guesses the stammer represents a clumsy attempt at human tact; it seems McCoy does not wish to hurt him by calling T’Lira Sarek’s wife. “Was that Vulcan affection?”

“It was the _ozh-esta,_ ” Spock answers mildly. It is a non-answer, as McCoy is not familiar with the etymology of the word. 

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” McCoy rolls his eyes, folding his arms defensively over his chest. “What kind of human contact is it analogous to?”

“It is not analogous to any single human gesture, as it involves a telepathic exchange. However, if multiple human gestures were combined,” Spock relents slightly, “It might unify the concept of asking ‘how are you,’ or perhaps ‘how was your day,’ with pleasurable intimate contact such as-- ” his mouth feels suddenly and inexplicably dry. “--a kiss.”

“Oh.” McCoy’s mouth forms a moue as it shapes the syllable; he lifts his fingers and surveys them. Spock finds his attention fixed on McCoy-- on his fingers hovering just at the level of his lush mouth. He licks his lips, then realizes his lapse as McCoy sucks in a sharp breath.

“That is not the correct form for the _ozh-esta,_ ” Spock hears himself say, his voice unusually husky. McCoy’s first two fingers are paired, but the others are neither extended in the ta’al for a passionate embrace nor folded decorously in against his palm as is appropriate for more sedate public displays. “It is done thusly.” 

Very daring, Spock reaches out and folds McCoy’s third and fourth fingers in, then extends his own. McCoy swallows hard, then touches his fingertips to Spock’s. Spock does not lower his shields, but he can feel McCoy’s joy, fluttery and nervous. McCoy does not draw back; his eyes follow the motion of Spock’s fingers, dark and avid.

“Or thus, in a more intimate display of affection.” Spock’s fingertips drift, caressing the length of McCoy’s fingers-- down along the soft inner pads, up along the knuckles with their dusting of soft, dark hair. 

“Oh,” McCoy manages again, breathy and low. 

“Or even thus.” Spock gently pulls McCoy’s fingers straight and helps him separate them. “This form of the gesture is considered quite inappropriate for public contact.” He touches all their fingers together, then traces McCoy’s hand, slow and lascivious. McCoy quivers, his lips parted, his breath shallow. He can’t quite keep his second and third fingers properly separated, but Spock doesn’t really care. He can sense McCoy’s lust, feel the heat quivering in him as if their minds are separated only by a ripple of air rising from Vulcan’s Forge.

Leonard draws back, but he doesn’t look away; Spock meets his eyes calmly, and neither man backs down. “Perhaps you would like to adjourn and pursue further discussion in private,” Spock ventures.


	6. Chapter 6

McCoy follows Spock down the corridor, his footfalls a soft echo of Spock’s own. Spock’s head is spinning, a giddy, almost dizzy sensation he has never experienced before. It seems to take forever to reach his room, but that soft tread shadowing his own steps never falters. 

He places his palm against the sensor and steps inside. McCoy follows.

Spock turns, clinging to restraint by his fingernails; McCoy’s eyes are stormy with heat, and his lips turn up in a slow, wicked smile. 

Spock reaches out, seeing himself move as if in slow motion, his fingers hooking into the collar of McCoy’s uniform jersey and hauling him forward. 

Leonard is ready, his head tilting and his mouth falling open to meet Spock’s kiss. Spock devours him, lips and tongue frantic, wet messy heat fast growing slippery between them.

Leonard groans, arms sliding around Spock to drag him even closer, and Spock obliges, crushing Leonard up against the wall of his quarters with one thigh pushing its way between Leonard’s legs. He barely manages to divert so that the door is not the surface against which McCoy rests; he would not wish for it to open at this time.

Leonard’s hands are fierce; they cling and dig for purchase in much the same way as his barbs and gibes have always done. Spock bites at his lips, tasting salt and eagerness there. 

“Took you long enough,” McCoy mumbles against his mouth, delight rumbling in his chest and vibrating through their skins wherever Spock touches him.

Spock growls softly in response, silencing him without words. 

It is no longer the time for talking.


End file.
